Halfway There
by bipping
Summary: I know it seems like we're never going to get out of this, but you have to picture our life as a journey. At the end, there is some bright, beautiful heaven waiting for us. And right now, we're halfway there


If one was looking for a good time, one merely needed to enquire into the whereabouts of a Mr. Mathias Køhler.

Of course, one did not enquire in civilised company; the question had to be addressed to the lowest of the low, to the homeless, to the women who lurked half-dressed on street corners, to the orphaned children who stole from stalls at marketplaces, to the owners of the most shady stalls at said marketplaces.

This was, of course, because the establishment that Mr Køhler ran was, in the nicest possible manner, a brothel.

One would not expect it. Mr Køhler was tall, charming, with blonde hair that fell in gravity defying layers across the face that he was all too aware of the beauty of. At his side was a quiet blonde man, shorter than Mr Køhler, with eyes of ice, and a heart to match. Both dressed formally, regally even, often in the finest suits sold in their small village. Mr Køhler greeted everyone with his arrogant smile, and would extend acts of kindness towards his neighbours.

But that is because they only knew him as Mr Køhler.

If one was to address him as "Denmark", his response would be entirely different.

He would place a finger to his sly smiling lips, and shush you, before hurrying you to a more private area.

At the use of his alias, he would ask simply, "Country or Conqueror?"

And you would reply, "Conqueror, of course," whilst grinning keenly.

Unless you happened to be poor, homeless and desperate, in which case you would choke out the word, "C-Country," and kiss goodbye to what was left of your innocence, dignity and virtue.

He would ask you simply, "Which country?" whilst assessing your appearance.

You would reply with the nation of your birth, and he would take your hand and lead to down winding passageways. The journey could be long, the journey could be short, but you would saviour it, for it would be the last journey you'd ever take before effectively selling your soul to the Devil.

Because you would have just sold your body to Denmark, and become another one of his assets, his property, his prostitutes.

That is, you would have, had you replied "Country".

Because that was how the notorious Denmark worked. He would employ mainly immigrants who were struggling to adapt to society in this new country, regardless of whether their immigration was legal or illegal. He would then set them up with an alias, to protect their identity. He had come up with the amazingly creative idea of calling them by the name of their homelands. He was lucky because, as of yet, he had not had any prostitutes from the same country. He'd deal with that issue when it arose.

However, he was missing a few countries.

He did pretty well; sometimes he and Norway (the previously mentioned man with eyes and a heart of ice) would even go on "business trips" outside of the country they worked in to find more exotic specimens.

But, despite this, his homemade Scandinavia was missing a Finland.

And he had the perfect Finland lined up.

Tino Väinämöinen.

The only thing between Denmark and his Finland was, of course, Sweden.

Berwald Oxenstierna had grown up with that nickname. After his parents sudden death, he had been sent to live with relatives in Denmark.

His strong Swedish accent had made him hard to understand, and for that reason his cousin, then only nine, and not yet grown into the menace that was Denmark, has misheard his name, and opted to call him Sweden instead, after his country of origin.

Berwald was tall. His very presence seemed to intimidate even the toughest of men. His eyes were blue, his hair blonde, and his heart the property of a short, innocent Finn.

That innocence was the sort of thing Mathias- no, Denmark, knew most men would sell an arm and a leg for.

He had these eyes; these big, brown eyes that seemed to glisten with wonder and awe at the world around him. His voice was gentle and delicate, although his shyness made him rather awkward to address in conversation. Tino was always worrying about saying the wrong thing, and would blush furiously when he thought he had.

Oh, how Denmark would prosper with a Finland like Tino.

But no, Sweden would not share his property.

Denmark knew he should have gotten to Finland first-

"Not still sulking about your failure yesterday, are you?"

Mathias was brought from his thoughts by the monotone, uninterested voice of Lukas Norge, his partner, who worked under the alias of Norway.

Mathias lifted his head from his arms, and craned his neck to look at the slender man stood in the doorway of his office, carrying what appeared to be a tea tray.

"Norge, you realise how much money that Tino could make us?" he asked, meeting Lukas' half-lidded eyes, and studying his bored expression.

"It's the kid's decision," he mumbled in response, entering the room and placing the tray on a small end table. With his back to Mathias, he lifted the china teapot, and poured the steaming brown liquid into two teacups. "He's not an idiot for not wanting any part in this business. It's not exactly the life I had planned out for myself at his age."

Mathias brought his fist down to meet his desk. "It's that bastard Sweden's fault! He doesn't give a shit about whether or not the kid wants in on this business, he just doesn't want to share his property! He was always like that, even as a child!"

Carefully, Lukas set a full teacup and it's saucer on Mathias' desk. "Maybe," he said quietly, even for him, "some people would rather not share their lover, regardless of how much money it would make."

Mathias blinked. He stared at Lukas, who, for once, looked back with wide eyes, full of unspoken emotion.

"What do you mean by that?" he finally asked, confused.

Lukas huffed, broke eye contact and turned on his heel. He grabbed his tray, and made his way to the door.

"Didn't even say thank you for your fucking tea," he spat, over his shoulder at the Dane.

And then he left, causing Mathias to sit in bewilderment and wonder what he'd done wrong.

...

Berwald was a fisherman.

It was a good, honest, profitable trade that he was not ashamed to admit to.

Unlike his cousin.

Berwald was also married.

It was a beautiful, sacred marriage, full of love and trust, joy, hope and wonder. And every day he woke up next to the man he'd married, he fell in love all over again.

Unlike his cousin.

His stupid, arrogant, ungrateful cousin who had all that he could ever need, yet still wanted more.

It made Berwald slightly sick.

But Mathias had always been like that, even as a child; wanting things purely to stop other people from having them.

And now Mathias wanted his wife.

Hauling in his net, Berwald vowed to himself that Tino was something Mathias would never have.

The tall man out on the boat with Berwald heaved the net inside, then ran a hand through his ash blonde hair.

"This isn't good," he stated, looking at the few fish writhing as they took their dying breaths with an expression of childlike glee. "Usually we catch more than this, da?"

Berwald "hmmm"-ed in agreement.

Ivan, for that was the name of his co-worker, stated, "These fish will be mine then. We have not caught enough to share."

"Wh't ab'ut m' w'fe? I h've ta feed T'no!" Berwald wasn't one to talk, but he felt the need to argue here; Ivan taking all their fish meant he was literally taking food from Tino's plate.

Ivan began to smile. "Tino can always come stay with me."

And now Berwald remembered why he hated working with the Russian who clearly wanted to take his Tino away from him too.

He shook his head.

Ivan sighed, and began to change the topic to one Berwald would rather avoid. "I saw you leaving Denmark's house the other day. Does that mean your precious Tino has finally become the whore he's destined to be?"

The Swede's grip on his oars tightened. "T'no ain't a wh're," he replied through gritted teeth.

Ivan's expression darkened, his smile grew. "Not yet. But these things take time. My sisters weren't always whores; they were once respectable young women. Natalia even had a husband." He took a moment to chuckle darkly. "At least, she did until she killed him."

Berwald continued to row, the conversation making him want to hurry home to his wife.

He wanted to hold Tino in his arms, and shelter him from the hell neither of them were aware was to come.

...

That night was the first of many Tino and Berwald went hungry.

The fish stopped biting.

Ivan stopped caring, leaving Berwald to go out on his own, lay traps he knew wouldn't catch anything on his own, drag his sorry arse home on his own.

Leaving him to apologise for his failure alone.

Tino acted like he didn't care. The two made do with whatever he could find, which usually consisted of dried meat and stale bread.

He pretended everything was fine, and kept his faith in his husband. He honestly believed that, if Berwald kept trying, he'd catch something.

Berwald couldn't bring himself to kill that dream.

He also couldn't bring himself to acknowledge Tino's quiet crying.

Every night, Tino would whimper slightly, before sobbing his poor little broken heart out. Berwald assumed it was due to hunger; being smaller and more delicate, as well as being weaker, the lack of food was affecting Tino far more than it affected Berwald, who was used to such shortages of supplies, due to his position in the navy during the war, and his long voyages at sea.

Berwald listened to these wails in silence, commiting each to memory.

To him, every sob represented a time he had failed as a husband.

He had promised that, as well as loving Tino, he would protect him. He promised to feed him, to shelter him, to keep him and only him in his heart forever.

And now he was left in this situation.

There was only one possible solution.

...

Tino woke up to the cold.

Not that it wasn't always cold; he was just always warmer:

Today, when he woke up, the blanket he and his husband slept under had been replaced by one of his husband's coats, and the husband that always kept him warm was gone.

Tino assumed Berwald had left for a fishing trip.

He just wished Berwald had told him.

Maybe he had, and Tino just hadn't listened. He seemed to be getting everything wrong now, causing Berwald to become even quieter than he already was, barely speaking to the Finn at all.

Pushing himself out of bed, Tino remembered that rent was due today.

He dressed quickly, splashing his face with water to wash away any remaining groggy sleepiness, and then made his way to the small jar full of all their savings.

However, when he picked it up, it was light.

And there was no jingling noise.

It was almost as though it had been emptied.

But that couldn't be right. He quickly unscrewed the lid. A slip of paper floated out.

It read simply, "Tino, I didn't want to tell you, for fear you'd be angry, what with your hatred for war. You're the reason I left the navy, after all. But I've signed up again. I'll be gone just under a year, and when I come back, I'll have enough money to provide for you. You'll never have to cry yourself to sleep again."

Tino felt numb. He wanted to tear the paper up, to scream, to do something, but he couldn't.

He couldn't tear the paper up because it was the only proof he had that Berwald cared about him, and the only proof he'd be getting for about a year.

He couldn't scream because he was choking on sobs he didn't want to cry.

He couldn't do anything because Heer Nederland would be round any minute to collect payment, and he had no money.

Tino's inability to act led him to his new life; out on the streets to fend for himself with nothing but the clothes on his back, an oversized coat, and a slip of paper that his husband had forgotten to write "I love you" on.

...

"Mr Denmark?"

Mathias looked up at the girl he had employed as his housemaid.

Of course, he had wanted to employ her as more than a housemaid, what with her big green eyes, long blonde hair and trusting naïvety, but a certain older brother of hers was very displeased by that idea.

"Lili," he said, rising from his seat at his desk to smile politely at her, "I told you only to call me that when a client is around."

She bowed in respect. "But Mr Denmark, sir, there's someone here to see you. Mr Norway said it was vital that I brought you down right away."

Mathias shook his head. "Need I remind you that it is Lukas you work for, not Norway."

Again, she bowed her head. "But sir, he sent me to fetch you-"

"Did he ask you to address me as Mr Denmark?"

She nodded. Mathias' eyes grew wide.

"He sent me with a message," she stated, in her high pitched voice. "He said, "Tell Mr Denmark he has important business to attend to, regarding his war with Sweden," after I answered the door to-"

But Mathias didn't need her description to work out who she had opened the door to.

He felt his heart flutter with anticipation as he ran down the stairs and into the parlour, where he knew his partner would be waiting with what he hoped was the gift he'd been waiting to receive from his cousin for the best part of three years.

...

Tino barely looked like Tino at all.

His eyes were tired and bloodshot from lack of sleep. His skin was pale in an unhealthy manner, as opposed to it's natural ivory colouring. He'd obviously lost weight, and he sat in ragged clothes and a coat that was far too big for him.

But despite it all, he still attempted to smile.

"Mathias," he greeted him cheerfully. "Long time no see!"

"I believe," Mathias began slowly, considering his every word, "that for the business you have with me, it would be wiser of you to call me Denmark."

Lukas watched the exchange from a seat in the corner, sulking, wallowing in his bitterness.

Tino nodded. "Yes... I suppose I should call you Mr Denmark."

The corners of Mathias' mouth flicked up into a grin. "Pray tell me Tino," he asked, sitting himself down," Country or Conqueror?"

The Finn flinched at the question. He took a deep, shuddering breath before replying, "Country."

...

Tino found adjusting to his new life was rather easy.

He already felt like a shell; just the remains of the Tino he once was.

He was almost glad no one called him Tino anymore.

Being Finland... It made it easy for him to convince himself that this was all happening to someone else.

And the other prostitutes were nice enough. Well, except that one they all called Belarus. She was scary. Tino failed to see why anyone would want to pay for her.

He'd heard from one of the boys who worked there that she was there because she was hiding from the law, after murdering her husband back in Lithuania.

People who payed for someone that messed up... That is a hardcore sadist.

Tino hated referring to himself, and the people he worked with, as prostitutes. It made him feel dirty. But try as he could, he never found a decent word to replace prostitute.

After all, that's what they were.

That's what he was.

He felt slightly sickened by his own existence, but he told himself it was all for a greater good.

The men who handled him weren't as gentle with him as Berwald was, but he like to close his eyes and imagine that that was who he was with.

He liked to pretend that Berwald hadn't left, and that he wasn't doing exactly what Berwald had told him he was never to do.

But it was worth it; being one of Denmark's more popular whores, Denmark gave some of the profits to him.

Tino had bought a house.

It was a nice, quaint house, with a garden, that he would live in once the year was up.

That he and Berwald would live in when Berwald came back.

And Tino had other plans for when his husband came back too.

One of the-he supposed he had to call her a prostitute, because that's what she was- prostitutes had a son they didn't want. His name was Peter, and, despite being rather annoying, the boy had grown on Tino, who was barely past boyhood himself.

Tino wanted to adopt the toddler. He and Berwald could raise him, and love him as they would their own son.

He smiled to himself slightly.

Six months had passed.

He was halfway there.

...

The house was different.

It had been painted a different colour.

The windows and doors had been replaced.

The garden was neater.

He felt like an intruder as he trudged up the gravel path.

It was his house, surely he could just open the door and stroll inside?

Yet something in his stomach twisted as he went for the door handle. It felt as though he were breaking in.

The door was looked.

He sighed, unaware as to how he would've felt about crossing the threshold had the door opened.

He raised a strong fist clad in a black glove to the newly painted door, and knocked.

The wood felt different; it had always felt rotten, as though it would break if he applied too much pressure. Now it felt strong, almost like a different type of wood.

He heard someone struggling with a lock.

The door opened without it's signature squeak. A round, cheery face peaked out from behind it.

He wanted to say something, but he had no idea what.

He had no idea who this person was.

They watched him with rosy cheeks and a knowing smile. Their wide eyes gleaned with anticipation.

"Berwald Oxenstierna?" they asked.

He nodded.

The girl laughed. "I was wondering when you'd turn up."

She tucked a strand of her wild brown hair behind her ear, and opened the door fully. She looked him up and down before switching the broom she was holding from one hand to the other, then extending her free hand to him.

He took it, curious as to whom this woman was, and why she was in his house.

"My name's Elizaveta. Tino told me to expect you," she explained.

Ah, so Tino knew this woman.

Why wasn't Tino in their house?

All too late, Berwald realised he hadn't planned this through. He'd needed their rent money to go out and provide for his wife, leaving Tino to suffer the consequences. He assumed Tino would be able to go out and get a job, earning back what Berwald had taken before their rent was due.

But he'd been wrong.

"Wh'r''s T'no?" he mumbled.

The woman's green eyes grew wide again, and her cheeks flushed. "I have his address written down somewhere... He visited a few weeks ago, you see," she stood back to let him into the house.

Berwald couldn't believe how much it had changed.

He remembered it being dark, dingy, full of rotting wood and despair, but brightened by love.

Now it was just bright.

The walls had been painted a crisp white. He found the other room had been decorated with paintings.

Elizaveta started rummaging through various piles of paper, looking for Tino's new address.

She turned, and caught Berwald looking at the decoration.

He didn't seem awed by them, as Tino had, and though his facial expression didn't change, she could tell Berwald was admiring them.

"My husband's a painter," she said, taking a seat next to him and handing him a slip of paper.

Berwald grunted an acknowledgement. He looked down at the crumpled slip in his hand, and stood up to leave. He muttered a thank you, then turned away from the woman, determined to find his wife before the day ended.

...

"Tino?" he heard someone call.

He smiled. It was hard getting used to that name again, but he was doing it.

He was also getting used to being called "Mama", due to that being the only name Peter ever called him.

He'd left his "job" about a month ago, and taken Peter with him. He worked at a marketplace now. His house had a garden. He grew vegetables.

He'd always wanted a garden.

And a dog.

But he'd get a dog later; right now all he wanted was his husband back.

Because Berwald had been gone a little while over the year he promised.

That didn't mean Tino had lost faith in him; he knew he'd be back.

He knew it.

That was why he'd visited his old home and left the nice lady who lived there his name and address; so that Berwald could find him.

"T'no?" he heard someone call again.

He pushed a strand of hair out of his face and continued planting.

"I'm back here!" he yelled to them.

He heard heavy footsteps trudge through the mud towards him.

And then Tino looked up.

He was taller.

He was taller, his hair was shaggier, his eyes were bluer and he was home.

Tino felt a smile work his way onto his lips.

"You're back," he said, rising from his crouching position and wiping his muddy hands on his trousers.

Berwald stared at him with those blue, blue eyes. "Hmm."

"You look different."

"Hmm."

He spread his hands. "I bought a house."

"Nm-hmm."

"And I adopted a boy. His name's Peter."

"Umn."

Tino felt his smile grow. "I own a market stall. I share it with a man named Eduard. We sell vegetables and stuff."

A nod.

"I- I missed you."

Silence.

His smile fell. "I didn't understand why you left. We had enough money; we could've pulled through. I worried that I did something wrong."

Silence.

"But- but I never stopped loving you."

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Tino looked down. He knew his husband wasn't the most talkative, but his failure to evoke a reply made him feel like he was doing something wrong.

"I left because I loved you."

The Finn's dark eyes flew up, his neck snapping towards the tall Swede. He'd never heard him speak with such certainty, or such perfect diction.

He flung his arms around him, feeling tears leak from closed eyelids.

"From now on, show me that you love me by staying."

...

They had had it all.

For several blissful years, they had it all.

They even had a dog.

Of course, that dog was long since dead and served in stew.

(Not that he'd told Tino, but he was sure the Finn knew)

That was all Tino had ever wanted. A family. A garden. A dog. A nice house, and friends who actually gave a shit about him and his future.

And Berwald had taken that from him.

Peter had gotten ill.

They had been told the boy wouldn't live long past twelve years old. The doctor called it cancer.

Berwald's heart had broken when he heard that. He loved the boy.

But his heart had broken a thousand more times when he saw Tino's horrified face.

He had tried to burn that face from his memories by drinking.

But drinking always led to gambling.

And he never knew when to stop.

When to say no.

When he wasn't going to win.

He realised the error of his ways when he lost it all.

When he lost everything.

Everything but the shirt on his back.

And the shirt on his wife's back.

And the shirt on his son's back.

This had led to where they were now.

He sickened himself.

He had forced his son into a life of crime, and his wife into one of prostitution.

Every night, he would listen to Tino's sweet melodic voice lull Peter and his fevered body to sleep, then watch his wife leave to spend his night with another man.

And it broke his already crushed heart.

Not that one would realise it if they saw the Swede; his face remained cold.

It was like he was a rock, strong and impermeable.

But there was one thing that could erode his tough exterior; Tino's pure, yet tainted, gaze.

That was when the guilt would truly swallow him.

He felt Tino take his hand in his own delicate ones.

"I know it seems like we're never going to get out of this," he whispered, his voice full of a beauty Berwald had only ever found in the Finn, "but you have to picture our life as a journey. At the end, there is some bright, beautiful heaven waiting for us, we just have to keep pushing forwards. Because I promise Berwald, our destination will make this all worth it. I promise that as surely the sun rises, the moon changes, and I love you, that our destination is a beautiful one. And right now, we're halfway there."

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

Hey! It's me, Tall on the Inside, fanfiction writer! But you all probably knew that.

So, I am completely aware that I promised Normality priority for a while, but that doesn't mean I can't upload oneshots, right?

Anyway, recently I've had this thing for SuFin and the song Livin' on a Prayer by Bon Jovi. I decided I'd write myself a SuFin oneshot inspired by that song, like I did with Little Bird. However, the actual thing seems to have very little to do with the song, and the characters all seem pretty OOC. Sorry for that.

This has been written on my phone, 'cuz, as of yet, I have had no success with my laptop. Therefore, we are allowed to blame auto-correct for any and all spelling errors.

Don't own Hetalia or the song. I think that, if I did, I would be able to screw emailing companies and phoning advice services and just buy myself a new laptop.

I would usually put this at the beginning, but my phone's being all wierd and won't let me.

This is my first attempt at both SuFin and DenNor, so don't go to hard on me. I did my best, and hopefully I'll be able to improve and write the pairings better in the future.

I want to say this has a happy ending, but I'm me, and none of the stories I write seem to have happy endings. Which sucks.

I hope you enjoyed. Please review, or read some of my other stuff. Or do anything.

Also I quite liked pimp!Denmark. He was fun to write, and I might one day to through andsortie out other oneshouts with him like that. It'd be fun. For me to write, I mean. Prostitution is bad, children. Don't sell sex. It's wrong.


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